CHAPTER XII

Two weeks passed by. For the most of the time Charles stayed close in the larger room, which he and Mason now occupied together, with a view to the utmost economy. They had become warm friends. When Charles's funds were almost exhausted Mason received a check for fifty dollars in payment of a debt owed him by a brother-in-law in the West, and Charles had to share it.

Mason never again alluded to the discovery he had made in regard to the trouble Charles was in, excepting once, when they were walking together in a crowded street on the East Side, and he had noticed that Charles seemed to be slightly nervous.

"Leave it to me," said Mason, suddenly. "I'll keep a sharp watch out, and I'll let you know if I see the slightest thing that looks fishy. Keep your mind off of it. I don't want to know any more about it, either. From what you say I gather that you are bound by some promise or other to keep your mouth eternally closed, even to a friend like me. That's all right. I admire you all the more for it. You may be a thief to those Boston folks, but you are not to me. The fact that you don't even deny the charge means nothing to me."

Upon another occasion, one rainy evening Mason took up the framed photograph of Ruth which Charles always had on the bureau, table, or mantelpiece, and stood admiring it.

"Say, pal," he said, suddenly, as he wiped the glass over the little face with his handkerchief, "if I ever leave you I'll want to steal this thing. It has grown on me. She must be a beauty, and so sweet and gentle."

Charles rose, took the picture into his hands, and stood looking at it steadily. "I wouldn't take the world for it," he said.

"I think I know something about her—I can guess. You say you used to drink hard at one time, though you don't now."

"Yes, that's true, but what else?" Charles went on, still feasting his homesick eyes on the picture.

"I don't want to bring up things that will pain you for no good in the world," Mason said, "so let's drop it."

"No, go ahead," Charles urged, half smiling. "I want you to finish, for I think, from some little things you have dropped now and then, that you are mistaken about me—in one particular, at least."

"Well," Mason went on, "I have an idea that you were once happily married and that—well, the old habit got the upper hand so far that your wife took the little girl and went away."

"Wrong, old man," Charles said, with a weary smile. "I've never been married."

"Ah, then she is a little sister?"

"No, only a niece," Charles interrupted, "but I love her and I think she loved me at one time, and may still, perhaps. They say that children soon forget those they love, and, as I shall never see Ruth again, she is sure to forget me; but I shall never forget her. Do you know, old man, that that very little angel has seen me drunk. She has crept into my arms and hugged me tight when I was too drunk to know she was near. I came to myself one day when she was crying in alarm because she could not wake me up. Oh, if I could blot that out! Perhaps when Ruth is grown she will recall that, scene more vividly than any other associated with me. It is odd, but I don't feel as if I shall ever drink a drop again—the desire has left me completely. I don't know why, but it has."

"Our talk is on the wrong line to-night," Mason said, sympathetically. "You said once that it was absolutely impossible for you ever to go back to your old friends, and if that is so this talk is doing you no good at all."

"No, it is doing no good," Charles admitted. "When I think of those old days my very soul seems torn apart. Lost opportunities—the 'what might have been' but wasn't! Yes, let's talk of the present. What chance for work now?"

Mason lighted his pipe, which he had been carefully filling. "There is a chance, but not here in New York. To tell you the truth, I rather like the idea, for it is the only thing I have seen in which we could stay together."

"A chance? What is it?" Charles demanded, putting the picture back into its place.

"You may laugh, but this monotony is killing me, and I am thinking seriously of taking the plunge," Mason said, as he puffed away. "I want you to come, but not if you don't like it. This morning I met a man in union Square who told me he was taking a week off from a job with a traveling circus and menagerie. It is now in Philadelphia. It will be in Newark, New Jersey, the day after to-morrow. He says men who are willing to do hard manual labor can always get employment, good food, fair sleeping-quarters on the train, and two dollars a day promptly paid. I've always liked outdoor work. The thing fairly charms me, for I want to see more of the country, but I don't want to throw you over. I've got used to you. I'd be lost without you. I've never had a real pal before."

Charles lighted his own pipe. He frowned as if in deep reflection. "I'm going to be frank," he said, presently. "I am like you. I like the idea of that sort of life immensely, and I am dying of dry rot. But I am wondering, would a man—well, a man like me, for instance—be as safe there as here."

"Safer, in my opinion," Mason declared, eagerly. "In a roundabout way I dug it out of the chap that many of the hangers-on were fellows who, for different reasons, were dodging officers of the law. He said he did not like that feature of the life, but that you don't have to associate with them unless you like. Gosh! you know, I like the idea, and I wish you did!"

"Newark, day after to-morrow," Charles said, thoughtfully. "That's close. Well, I'll think it over. It looks inviting, doesn't it? Yes, I'll think it over. What will we have to do?"

Mason laughed. "Feed the animals; drive stakes and pull them up; help about the big tent-kitchen; dress up like Turks or some other outlandish creature and march in the street processions, and Heaven only knows what else."

"It is getting interesting," Charles smiled. "I'll let you know soon. Keep it in view. It is the only thing in sight, and we will starve at this rate."

The two friends happened to be in Madison Square the following afternoon, and were attracted by the sight of several groups of people gathered around some "soap-box" orators in the space set aside by the city for such meetings. Speeches were made daily by the men and women on religion, science, philosophy and every form of politics from crass anarchy to ideal socialism. For the most part, the speakers were of foreign birth or the descendants of foreigners. Presently they were drawn into a group that was gathering about a blond-bearded philosopher who had the ascetic face of a mystic and who was telling how he had forsaken a life of practical activity and had found infinite peace. Men in the group who openly avowed themselves to be atheists began to laugh and jeer and ask pertinent questions. The speaker replied to them. A fierce argument arose. The noise of the discussion attracted persons in the other groups and Mason and Charles found themselves hemmed in by the close-pressing human mass. Charles, who was deeply interested in the man's theory of renunciation, suddenly felt his friend nudging him with his elbow. Looking into his face he detected a queer expression in it.

"Let's get out," Mason said, in a low voice. There was no mistaking the insistent note of warning which it held, and, sure now that something was wrong, Charles quickly assented and began worming his way through the crowd. It was difficult to do so, for the spectators were all deeply interested in the argument and did not care to stand aside. As they laboriously moved forward, inch by inch, Charles noticed that Mason now and then cast a furtive backward glance into the throng, as if anxious to avoid some one.

"Come on, come on!" he kept urging. Finally they were free and on the open sidewalk. "Come on!" Mason repeated, his eyes on the ground.

"What is the matter?" Charles asked, bewildered.

Looking back toward the crowd, Mason suddenly lowered his head again and said, warningly: "Don't look back. I see him watching us. He followed us out of the crowd." Mason swore under his breath. "I don't like the looks of this a bit—not a bit!"

Further along he explained. "I was looking over that bunch of men just now when all at once I saw a short man a little behind us watching you like a hawk. He evidently didn't think we were together. He never let your face leave him for a minute. I saw his eyes gleaming, as if he had just discovered you and was studying your features."

"And you think—" Charles did not finish.

"He looked to me like a detective in plain clothes. I have seen some of them, and he was of that type. He couldn't hide his interest. You know your picture has been published. It looked to me like this fellow was comparing you to it in his mind. I don't know, but I am sure we must dodge him if we can."

"I ought not to have come out like this," Charles sighed, gloomily. "I've been a fool."

"Never mind, come on," Mason said, looking back. "I don't see him now. We'll give him the shake."

They went up to Central Park; they sat there on one of the benches till sundown, and then went back to their room. Both were very grave and neither had much to say.